


Cold as my Heart

by aiwaguru



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beauty and the Beast, Fantasy, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Magic, Mystery, Revisionist Fairy Tale, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-01 17:39:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiwaguru/pseuds/aiwaguru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by Disney's Beauty and the Beast.<br/>This is the one where John is Beauty, because let's face it, an army man is always a good catch in a small village, especially when also a doctor, and Sherlock is the Beast, even though he does not look like it, his curse is just not as easy to understand as the traditional one (and his house is filled with things that talk, so something must be off)<br/>There's lots of magic, a bit of adventure, mostly because in an enchanted palace strange things happen all the time, but this is mostly a story about true love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually set in modern days, even though it does not seem so.

 

 

 

There was a big feast when he came back to the village.

John Watson was rather sure no one really knew what it meant to be **dismissed** by the army.

Of course, to them he was one of the few who ever went to university, he was a doctor, and he had served under the King during a war. He was, after all, the one coming back with medals, an honour his village had never had.

John didn't care about the medals. 

To John, coming home was a punishment, it was worse than war itself.

He had left the village for a reason, and it wasn’t that he wanted to come back a hero, it was that he never wanted to come back at all!

To come back after being injured was just a way to reiterate how useless he was to the world and himself.

A reminder he really didn't need.

He knew his life was going to have no meaning at all if he had to spend the rest of his days in the midst of nowhere.

 

~~

 

It had always been hard, but now he had changed way too much to fit in at all. 

To them it was all so simple, an old mate who brought a bit of the charm of the city-life back to the village. Such entertaining stories.

Reality was quite different.

John felt empty and haunted, so much he started limping as soon as he realized he was back for good.

Here, it wasn’t easy to avoid Harry’s ruined life, here, it was impossible to forget his parents were dead.

No one noticed.

 

They thought it was normal for an ex-army doctor to use a cane, they thought he was still their friendly John. 

Part of him was still that person, but not even that part had ever been understood.

 

He was popular now.

All the women in the village would swoon over him, and he had to admit, even a few men, especially that Moriarty bloke that kept turning up every time he was having a few pints at the pub.

They were all babbling about marriage, but John had no interest in anything like that.

There was **always** something missing.

Of course, during the war he had fancied himself in a steady relationship, but more because he wished he had somewhere else to come back to than his broken home, not because he believed he could really have a connection with someone.

He was a bit of a romantic at heart and he did try.

No one was ever enough, or maybe **he** was the problem.

The result was always the same, it was way too easy to lose interest.

 

One thing he was sure of though, he would never go out with that Moriarty, the guy brought the word dodgy to a whole new level. 

He had no idea why the guy was that popular in between his mates.

 

~~

 

Things changed on a cold afternoon of Jannuary.

Things never really go how you expect them to, after all.

Sarah had been missing since the day before and he was starting to worry.

She was his only real friend, the only one who had lived in the city, not to mention the only other doctor in the village.

She had been seen last time following her father’s footsteps in the forest, towards the path no one really went through because of some silly legends and because it didn’t really go anywhere interesting.

John didn't really hesitate much, he knew what he had to do.

“The beast got them!” screeched an old lady from a nearby house as he was hiking up the hill, trying to follow the few clues that were still fresh on the snow.

“I wish,” he muttered under his breath, that would be an adventure for him, distraction enough from a boredom he had fought all his life!

He did bring his gun, just in case.

 

~~

 

 _Baker Street_ , said the sign at the end of the road, which was ridiculous.

Who would name a street in the middle of the forest?

It was cold, it was beginning to grow dark, but there was one light at the end of the road that spurred him on.

“221B,” he read on the gate of a strange building. He would have thought it a palace, if it wasn’t for the state of ruin it was in.

Why put a random number on the only building present for miles?

He was secretly happy though, because this was much more entertaining than the village anyway.

He knocked on the huge door, pretty sure Sarah had to be inside, if anywhere.

The door creaked open, but no one replied.

So he decided to invite himself in.

“Sarah?” he called, his fingers lingering on his gun, but he didn’t really take it out just yet.

There was a shout of “Sir!” He turned around, trying to find the source.

 “Sir, you should not enter here!” the voice continued, and he wasn’t stupid, it really came from the clock that was walking towards him.

A clock. Walking. Towards him.

He aimed his gun at it.

It froze, suddenly nervous.

“What the hell?” he wasn't sure whether he was complaining to the clock or to his brain for playing such tricks.

“Do not shoot, I just came to warn you," it said pleadingly.

“Warn me? I have a gun,” he muttered, waving it a bit, just to make a point.

“I noticed,” it said, not amused.

“Well?”

“If you let me explain…” he started, and blinked.

John was at the end of his wits, a clock was blinking at him.

“Maybe without the gun pointed at me?” it suggested.

“What?" he considered his sanity for a moment. There was probably none left all considering. "Uh. Sure. Sorry.” He let his arm fall to the side.

“This palace is off limits, no one can enter,” it began, it sounded old, as if something he had said a lot in the past.

“My friend is here, I followed her here,” he replied stubborn, he had a reason to be there after all.

“Your friend? Are you talking about Sarah Sawyer?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Well, she is a guest here.”

John frowned. “Very well, then I can visit her?”

“No.”

“Are you keeping her here against her will?”

“Yes. I mean, No. Of course not, that would be illegal. She has a contract.”

The army doctor looked at him suspiciously.

“We need her.”

“The village needs her as well, she is the only doctor.”

The clock seemed to look a bit guilty for that.

“I am here to bring her back.”

“I am sorry, but she is our only ho-“ he stopped when a tapping started to come closer.

“Donovan! Donovan come here!” the clock shouted.

A chandelier seemed to answer that name, John had to wonder whether he was dreaming.

“We have a problem, Lestrade.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“I have to. The freak doesn’t like her!”

“He will eventually.”

“He despises her. We are doomed.”

John scratched his head. “Can I have her back then?”

“No, she has to stay here!”

The chandelier seemed to give him a once-over. “Who is **he**?”

“He’s here to ‘save’ Sarah Sawyer.”

“He could. There is nothing we can do, he doesn’t even want to see her.”

Lestrade turned towards the chandelier, clearly aggravated. “We have to try something, we cannot give up now.”

“Maybe we’ve been barking up the wrong tree all along…” Donovan muttered, looking at John again. “We could try him.”

The doctor’s eyes widened. What were they talking about?

“He’s more good looking than her anyway.”

Lestrade seemed to pause to think. “If we let her go, would you be willing to take her place and stay here?”

John blinked. “Stay here for what?”

“To meet our master, keep him company…”

“Is he like you? I mean… like… a talking… object?” That sounded a bit like an insult.

“No.”

“Much worse,” seemed to cough Donovan.

He thought about it. “You guarantee Sarah will be sent home safe and sound?”

“Of course, no harm will come to her and her family. If you promise to stay here, no matter what.”

He pursed his lips.

“It might be dangerous,” the clock added.

“Yes,” was his sudden reply.

The chandelier looked at him like he was an odd experiment.

“I am sure, yes. Let her go.”

 

~~

 

So there he was, stuck in a ruined palace that was hardly warm enough and with a mysterious master.

When they showed him his room, he was able to see Sarah for a split second, she seemed to be scared and quite shocked.

“He’s horrible, John, what have you done?”

“Don’t worry,” he muttered, even though he wasn’t sure if he believed what he was saying either.

“You don’t understand, the beast… he’s… so cold…”

John sat on the bed, wondering what he was supposed to do.

One part of him was a bit worried he was going to end up raped and ditched somewhere.

The other part was excited about things being so different here.

“He will see you now,” Lestrade gravely muttered. That did feel a bit ominous.

“Very well. Fine,” he said, adjusting his jumper as if it was a beauty contest.

He was not sure what to expect and he loved it.

He was guided into a dark room, no light except for the one coming from the fireplace.

“Never thought about investing in a few bulbs?” he commented to the shadow that seemed to lurk in the corner.

It was tall, and maybe he was a bit scared.

The shadow seemed to chuckle, a thing that surprised even itself.

“Can I borrow your phone?” asked the dark patch, walking closer.

He leaned on his cane, taking out his mobile. “Is that what you need me for?” he asked amused, his eyes never leaving the shadow.

It was quite creepy, the cold, the way the light seemed to be avoiding that corner.

It was definitely not natural.

There was an arm, reaching out, there was a pale hand taking the phone, there was a face he was finally able to see, his breath getting caught in his chest.

Curly black hair framed high cheekbones and pale skin in an impossibly tall frame.

He was handsome, very much so, he couldn’t see why he would be called a beast if it wasn’t for his eyes.

They were dark and cold like a winter night, unnatural and creepy, moving on him like he was a prey.

He was too pale to seem alive, he was not reflecting the light, he was feeding on it in the dark corners.

It was creepy, but nothing one could not deal with.

It didn’t really seem dangerous, mostly considering how disinterested he looked.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John frowned. “They told you about me?”

“No, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you-?”

“I know you are an army doctor, you’ve been invalidated in Afghanistan, you’ve got a brother who is worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve, because he’s an alcoholic, or more than likely because he just walked out on his wife, and the army therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I would think. Isn’t this why you are here Doctor Watson?”

John blinked, tried to remember the last time anyone had guessed things about him so quickly.

Wait, it never happened.

“How did you know..?”

“I didn’t know, I saw. The way you hold yourself, clearly military, the way you look at things in the room, at me, checking for danger and damages, that is typical of a doctor in a dangerous environment, not to mention your involvement with Sarah Sawyer, who doesn’t seem keen on anyone who hasn’t gone to university, so army doctor. Your face is slightly tanned, no tan on your wrists which means work, not sun-bathing. Your limp is bad, but you don’t ask for a chair, as if you’ve forgotten about it, so it must be partly psychosomatic. It had to be recent; you can see for yourself that it had to be Afghanistan or Iraq, which is why I asked.”

John’s whole attention was on the strange creature now.

“And then of course the phone…” On he went explaining why this person knew everything of his life when he had said nothing about it.

He felt like an open book.

It wasn’t magic though, not the kind that seemed to be permeating the walls in this place. This man was deducing everything in leaps of perfect logic.

“That… was amazing.”

The man seemed to be surprised. “You think so?”

“Extraordinary… quite extraordinary.” He was genuinely impressed, if not intrigued.

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John laughed, and the beast actually looked at him for a long moment.

“Have I got everything right?” he asked eventually. John thought he might have seen an half smile, but he tried not to be caught staring.

“Substantially.”

“Spot on. I didn’t expect to be right about everything.”

“Except I don’t have a brother.”

“What?”

“I have a sister,” he pointed out somewhat smugly, he was glad there was still something he hadn't given completely away.

“A sister! Of course! There is always something.”

John walked to the fireplace. “We have never really got along…”

The beast stepped closer, but stopped when the fire seemed to waver in response.

“You are not going to ask me why I accepted to stay here?” asked the doctor, looking at him sideways. “Considering I don’t know anything about you, not even your name.”

“It is quite clear to me.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, because everywhere is better than the village.”

John laughed. “Good point.”

More than his ‘friends’ had ever noticed anyway.

“Name’s Sherlock Holmes.”

He felt a chill run up his spine. “John Watson.”

“I know.”

 

 


	2. A Study in Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strange serial murders happen in the castle, and who else can investigate if not John and Sherlock?  
> The curse becomes a bit clearer as John spends more time with the Beast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of a retelling of episode 1, but very very liberal, as in, do not expect anything like it.  
> Don't be angry at me for not following canon, please?
> 
> Also, it is quite violent towards the end, so if you do not like that, please do not read.

 

 

 

The days after that first encounter were fast to go by.

He was not summoned again, nor did he see Sherlock at all in the castle.

He was a bit disappointed, for he had been intrigued by that clever being.

He found new ways to entertain himself though.

Searching for things that could tell him who Sherlock Holmes really was for example.

It turned out that the castle was more inhabited than he thought, there was a force of servants, all in shapes of common objects, that stayed invisible unless needed and it took him some time to really notice they were indeed there.

So many that a day wouldn't pass without meeting a new one.

Lestrade would come to talk to him at times, but he figured it was more to check he hadn't run away than anything else.

"How long do you reckon he's going to ignore my presence?" he asked after the first week.

"He's not... The master is really busy these days..."

"Oh yeah?"

"Odd things are happening..."

"You don't say..."

"Unusual even for here I mean..." And by the way he was saying that, he knew it was no laughing matter.

It was then that the door burst open, and the room was suddenly dark.

"You are a doctor," said Sherlock, standing there as if this was perfectly normal. "Are you a good one?"

John stood up, forgetting about his cane for a moment.

 "A very good one."

"You've seen many deaths, injuries…"

"Enough for a lifetime..."

"Would you like to see more?"

"God, yes."

 

And they were dashing out that section of the castle, into another one, a darker one, and it felt like they were walking for miles before they actually arrived.

"Where are we going?" asked John, the chill making his skin bump.

"Crime scene."

"A crime scene? In the castle?"

"It seems we have an unwanted guest."

They entered a room and there was a woman, a real woman, dressed in pink and very much dead.

He knelt at her side, checking her pulse. "We need to call the police…"

"They can't help her..."

"Sherlock..."

"John... They really can't..."

The doctor frowned and somehow he believed him, more than he ever believed anyone else in his life before. He was going mad, wasn't he?

"What do you need me for?"

"Tell me when she died, and how... Anything you can deduce from this..."

He examined her closely, the years of service were useful then, because he knew exactly what to do, regardless of the strange situation.

Not to mention, if someone was dead it meant there was also a murderer.

Unless…

“It seems like a heart attack… yesterday… probably yesterday night, not more than 10 hours ago…”

Sherlock moved from foot to foot, somehow John knew it meant there was more.

With careful touch, he turned her around and he noticed how strange the woman looked.

She was dishevelled, her blouse was undone, open at the level of her heart. There was an incision.

It couldn’t be.

“It looks like someone got her heart…” he leaned closer. “But this wound, it should have been older to look like this… like a transplant except this is not the work of a surgeon…”

“I suspected as much.”

John stood up: “Who is this lady, Sherlock?”

“A servant. No one else can stay in this castle.”

“A servant? But she is not…”

“Of course she is not, she wouldn’t stay a wardrobe once she was killed.”

“You know who she is then?”

“No, I will need Lestrade to check our files.”

“Then how…?”

“Her clothes, the pattern, it is the same as the east wing of the castle.”

“There are not only wardrobes over there.”

“Of course, but the dust on her shoulders and head, they seem to simulate the way wardrobes are usually cleaned, always forgoing the upper part, because it's too high up. Besides, her shoes are clearly ruined the way wardrobes feet are dragged across the unique carpet we have in the east wing.”

“Fantastic.”

“That was nothing special.” Sherlock said, looking outside for a short moment.

Was there a shadow of a smile on his lips?

“Still fantastic,” John muttered, thoughtful. “So what you are saying is that all the servants here… they are actually people.”

“Of course they are people, how would you think they’d move and talk?” 

“They don’t **look** like people at the moment.”

“That doesn’t mean they aren’t.”

“Why don’t they though? What happened?”

Sherlock seemed to draw back at that. “Concentrate on what happened to her, John.”

The doctor frowned. “It could be linked, it wouldn’t get any odder.”

“It has nothing to do with it,” the voice was cold.

John wanted to protest, but he had a feeling it was not the right time.

Sherlock was probably right anyway, this was the work of an outsider, maybe he didn’t have the beast’s deductive skills, but he had an instinct that worked quite well.

“So when they die, they go back to the way they were…” he muttered, glancing Sherlock’s way, the beast was against the corner, as far as possible from him.

“Yes, they are free then,” he whispered.

John frowned, he wished he could ask more, but he knew it had nothing to do with what they had at hand, and he doubted he’d get a reply.

“Is this the first victim?”

“Fourth.”

“FOURTH!?”

Sherlock winced. “I was informed only after the third, Lestrade and the others were dealing with it, but were out of their depth, as usual.”

“This is no joke, Sherlock, we are all in danger… it is no normal serial killing… this murderer… he must have something… something that lets him get to the heart without actually opening the body if not for that wound.”

The beast seemed to be impressed by John’s words. “I have heard of something like that…”

“I really don’t want to know what he does with the hearts,” the doctor muttered.

“No, you really don’t want to,” he muttered back, and made towards the door.

“Wait, where are we going now?”

“ **I** am going to find out who the murderer is, **you** should go back to your room,” he said simply.

“What? No, I am going to help.”

“There is nothing you can do that you didn’t do already.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I can do much more!”

“There are certain things, John…”

Another chill ran up his spine at the mention of his name.

“That only I can do…”

 

~~

 

Donovan escorted him back to his room, she didn’t seem very happy. 

“I think it’s him who did it… he is going to kill us off one at a time,” she rambled.

John was brooding already, and really couldn’t be bothered with her.

“As if putting us all under a curse was not enough…”

“A curse?” he looked at the chandelier, who stepped back, realizing she had been heard.

“Forget about that.”

Of course it was a curse!

It made sense.

Except that he had never believed in magic.

 

~~

 

When he woke up the next day, he took his gun from his hiding spot, placed it under his belt and went off to explore the castle. 

He wished he could find Sherlock, he wished he could help him, but there was too much he still didn’t understand about this place.

Especially the doors he could not open.

He eventually decided for a walk in the gardens, and it was when he was leaning against his cane, standing in between the rose bushes that he heard a cry.

He dashed off towards the sound, sure it had been Sherlock even though the voice had not been intelligible.

Then there was a fence too high to climb, and he was forced to stop, panting as he clung to it.

Adrenaline was rushing through his veins and making his head burn.

He pressed his face to the grid, trying to see as far as his eyes went, looking for the source of the sound.

 

He saw Sherlock, he was hurt, his arm was bleeding and there was a boy in front of him with a sinister knife.

He looked innocent, if not for the blood on his lips, as if he had just licked the blade with Sherlock’s blood.

John didn’t really think much, he just aimed his gun and shot.

 

The bullet went through the creature’s forehead, and it seethed before burning into nothing.

No corpse, only thin air.

 

Sherlock’s eyes were wide as he turned to look at him.

“Come inside. I need to check that wound you have on your arm,” John shouted as he put the safety back on his gun.

No doubt the beast wasn’t expecting that and he looked at his arm curiously.

He frowned, apparently taken by a million thoughts, before he decided to start walking towards the house, meeting John at the end of the fence.

“You just killed a boy,” he said quite disbelieving once they were inside and they entered the privacy of the library.

“He was going to kill you,” John said simply.

Sherlock didn’t seem to understand his words.

“He was not a boy anyway,” he added, “He was not human.”

The beast stared at him as he sat down, no doubt wondering how someone like John had been able to tell. “And I am?”

“I know you are… or you were…” the doctor said simply. “Sit down, I’ll get a first aid kit.”

“In the drawer.” He pointed in the direction of the nearest cupboard. 

He took care of Sherlock's wound, he cleaned it and bandaged it, sustaining the beast’s silent staring.

“So. Are you going to tell me who it was?” he asked eventually.

“Are you a first shoot then explain person then?”

“Oh yeah,” he wasn't going to hide his quick temper.

“It was a Tabecuo… a creature that feeds on hearts …”

John didn't even flinch, as improbable as that sounded, he knew it was true.

“Where did it come from?”

“I have no idea… but this castle does attract a lot of odd things…”

“I guess it does,” he was one of them, too, wasn't he?

There was a long pause, just silence, the calm after the storm of adrenaline.

“Where is your cane?” the beast asked eventually. 

John looked around as if it could appear out of nothing and then laughed: “It seems like I lost it.”

“It certainly seems so,” he answered with a bit of a smug tone. As if he had something to do with it.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Hadrien for her thoughtful BETAing <3


	3. The Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the one where they finally talk about the curse, and then John explores a part of the castle he had never visited before.
> 
> This is the scene corresponding to when the Beast gives/shows the library to Belle. Just a bit twisted to fit with the story.  
> The idea is taken from the Howl Moving Castle's universe.

 

 

John passed the time he spent with Sherlock to try and find out what exactly was this curse that Donovan had mentioned.

From the day of that serial murder, the beast got used to sharing the living room in the North aisle with John.

He would sit there sipping his tea, reading, while Sherlock went on with the strangest experiments, sometimes telling John about them even though he hadn’t asked.

John didn’t mind.

It was always interesting.

Not to mention the books that were in those shelves! Things he had never seen, science that he had thought was fiction, a world that opened up with new horizons.

It was fascinating to say the least.

“So what’s your conclusion?” Sherlock asked after a week, apparently out of nowhere.

“Sorry, what?” The doctor looked up from his journal.

“You have been observing me for a while now, I would believe you’d have formed an opinion on what’s wrong with this place by now.”

“Partly, yes,” he admitted, no point in beating around the bush.

“I believe you realized I cannot really talk about it.”

“I guessed as much.”

“But that doesn’t mean I can’t listen to what you have to say,” he pointed out and John knew he was curious.

“Very well...”

“Shoot,” he muttered with a soft smirk on his lips.

John had to bite on his lower lip, he really didn’t want to find that charming.

“There is a curse. I have no idea what kind, because to tell the truth I’ve never believed in magic,” he confessed, trying to find some sort of confirmation on the other’s face. ”It has to be old, because the servants in the castle were all involved in it, and there are no servants or such palaces in the modern world.”

Sherlock sat by his favourite sofa, and rested his head on his hand, looking at him.

“The servants are all trapped as household appliances or useful items, they either can’t leave, or don’t want to, especially considering they wouldn’t be taken kindly to in the outside world.”

The beast hummed.

“As for you… the question is whether you are the one keeping them here, or you are the victim of the curse as well…” he looked into the other’s eyes. They were so dark, he knew they weren’t real, there had to be something underneath.

Sherlock moved unperceptively, he clearly wanted to say a lot of things, but he couldn’t.

“But maybe you are both,” John realized, “You are the victim of the curse and the others are trapped in it just because they were involved with you.”

There was a sharp intake  of breath, but nothing else.

“You are definitely human, but you don’t react well to light, or light doesn’t react well to you. You make the room cold when you come in, and dark, there are always inhuman shadows on your face and body, and you are clearly not happy with the situation. You feel trapped,” he knew he was running wild with this, but he was sure, so sure.

The beast laughed softly. “You seem to think you understand my **feelings.** ”

John nodded. “I do.”

The silence stretched in the cold, he shivered in his jumper.

“Some of the servants call you beast… but it isn’t because of the curse… it’s because of how you treat them and how you treat other people, they think your heart is cold and calculating,” he continued mercilessly.

“I have been informed I do not have one,” he noted off-handedly.

“You do… otherwise the Tabecuo would have never attacked you,” he replied simply. It was pure logic, Sherlock had to appreciate that.

“Physical attributes do not imply emotional capabilities,” he protested with a shrug.

“They are not as disconnected as you seem to think.” John stepped closer, feeling the cold seep under his skin, but he ignored it. “If I remember well from those blasted fairy tales though, each curse has a way out… there is a way to lift it.”

The beast froze, his muscles tensing, but John wasn’t sure whether it was because he was too close or because of what he was saying.

“What is it? What will free you? Does it have to do with the people you have your servants kidnap? Does it have to do with me?” he asked.

Another step closer and Sherlock was standing up, moving nervously until he was behind the sofa.

“You seem to think I could talk about something like that,” he scoffed, even though he looked far from confident.

“I think you should, I might be able to help.” The truth was that he **wanted** to help.

“John, you are silly to think you can be a hero here…”

“That is not what I am trying to do…”

“All I can tell you is that it is **impossible** to lift this curse,” he muttered, and without hesitancy he fled.

He left the room, leaving John frowning at the fireplace.

If only he knew what that meant.

 

~~

 

“Finally in the west wing...” muttered Sherlock appearing behind him. 

John was not surprised; he had a feeling the beast always knew where he was.

“It’s the only part I haven’t explored,” he explained, turning towards him, half-expecting to be stopped.

“Yet the most interesting one.”

“Are you going to accompany me?”

“Of course. I had a proposition actually,” his voice sounded hesitant.

He frowned, looking at Sherlock.

He wasn’t really looking at him.

“What is it?” he had a feeling he wasn’t going to like this.

“You could move your things here, there is a room I think you would like to have for your home…” he explained dryly.

“Home?” he repeated, quite taken aback by the choice of words.

“Am I mistaken in thinking you are feeling more at home here in this palace than in your native village?” asked Sherlock with his hands wrapped behind his back, he seemed oddly guarded.

John was surprised at his own answer. “No, you're right.”

“Come on then…” he muttered with a hidden smile and then opened the door into a cosy living room.

There was a kitchen on one side, dusty and filled with half-finished experiments, no doubt courtesy of the master of the house.

He found himself smiling as he looked at them, it was familiar somehow. Already.

He felt Sherlock’s gaze pinning him down, so he decided not to dwell further.

There was a staircase going down right beside the door they’ve come through, and one going up, no doubt to a bedroom.

It was peculiar; it didn’t feel like it was part of the palace at all.

And then he saw it.

The window, and what went on outside the frame.

It was London.

Crazy, unpredictable, modern London.

“It can’t be!” he exclaimed, pushing his nose to the glass, there were people out there, cars, shops, everyone going on in their merry life.

“This is the only part of the life I had that I could find my way back to. Even though it has changed considerably from my days…”

The words arrived from behind him, and he realized Sherlock was closer than he had ever been.

John wasn’t cold though, his skin was burning red instead. He knew if he leaned back a bit he’d be touching the other’s body.

“You used to live here?” Now he was starting to understand: _221b Baker Street_ made much more sense if he applied it to London’s boroughs.

“Technically, I still do…” he muttered, looking outside. “Actually, it’s been a while I have…”

John turned around, and indeed he was closer than expected.

Sherlock froze, but he didn’t pull back as usual.

“Why do you want me to stay here?”

He knew there was no explanation to this ‘magic’ that would make sense to him anyway, so he could just ask what really mattered to him instead.

Sherlock blinked. “I reckoned the other parts of the castle were going to get a bit boring for you eventually, and the village is not exactly at hand. Here, you have all of London to keep you entertained.”

The doctor felt a bit at a loss. On one hand he was grateful, he loved London more than anything, it was the only place he had ever felt truly free.

At the same time though, there was something off about this peace offering.

He felt like Sherlock was pushing him away.

“I wasn’t bored,” he pointed out, trying to tidy up the mess he had in his chest.

“All the same,” the beast said with a soft smirk.

He took a deep breath. “Let’s go then, let’s go and get something to eat, I know a Chinese very close to here.”

Sherlock frowned: “You can go.”

“I am inviting you out, am I not?” he insisted.

“I have more important things to do.”

“Like what? Your latest experiment can wait,” and he grabbed his wrist, pulling him towards what seemed to be the front door.

He tried to ignore the chill running up his back, the way Sherlock’s body reacted by tensing up completely.

“No,” and he pulled them both to a stop on the stairs.

“What is it?” asked John, glaring at him. He wanted answers.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you understand, John?” he hissed, looking at the doctor’s hand, his fingers around his wrist.

He looked oddly fascinated.

He felt a weight settle in his heart. “Is that part of the curse?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “The most important part.

“You can’t go outside the grounds.”

He nodded.

“What happens if you do?”

“I become a shadow, I become the darkness itself, spread over the city… and it’s not easy to come back… it takes me… weeks…”

John sighed, feeling utterly bereft.

“You are free to go…” he slowly put his hand on top of John’s, hesitant.

It was shaking.

“I promised to stay,” was the doctor’s reply, unwavering even when the beast looked up with those dark, unnatural eyes.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t take a stroll sometimes, find a job, everything will be here… at 221B Baker Street… waiting for you…” he looked to the side, eyes unfocusing.

“I will be here.”

John felt his heart beat faster. “I don’t feel like going anywhere. I will just stay in,” he heard himself say, and he squeezed Sherlock’s wrist very softly, before slowly letting go of it.

The beast straightened up, clearly quite confused.

“Very well,” he finally muttered, after a pause that seemed to last for hours. “I might have an experiment that will interest you.”

“Sounds interesting already.”

“If you would follow me.”

“Always.”

And it felt so sincere it hurt.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Hadrien for BETAing as usual <3


	4. No Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes back to London for the first time, Sherlock doesn't take it that well.

 

 

John wasn’t even sure why he had refused to go outside.

Just a few months ago he had been pining for London, now he was ignoring it just so he wouldn’t hurt Sherlock’s feelings.

He moved his things to the cosy room at the end of the stairs, but he seemed to be perfectly content just gazing outside the window while drinking his tea when Sherlock wasn’t there to entertain him.

He would have never thought such a quiet life would be tolerable for him.

He also managed to fix the telly. It was an old model, but it worked just fine for his needs.

Sherlock seemed to be fascinated by it.

“You never get bored?” he asked him once as he was showing him how to use the remote.

“I used to.”

He felt himself swallow. “What changed?”

“You arrived,” he replied without hesitation, then changed the channel. “I used to be… bored… all the time.”

“Dreadful,” he whispered, feeling strangely warm.

He had no idea why, but Sherlock didn’t have that odd effect on him anymore, even when they sat next to each other on the sofa.

“Indeed.”

He stopped on the news channel. There was a crime scene, and Sherlock leaned forward, drinking in every detail.

Pictures of the suspects, motives... so much information mixed with all sorts of unfounded hypothesis.

“They have it all wrong,” he muttered, frustration clear in his voice.

John slowly moved closer, intrigued. He knew if anyone could tell him who the real culprit is, it was Sherlock.

“This is the third victim, I’ve seen a special about it yesterday night… it seems  the victims had been warned in some way… something to do with Chinese characters… room locked from the inside…” he explained all he could remember.

“Look.” Sherlock pointed at the screen: the corpse was covered in a white sheet, but an arm could be seen, and there, half hidden by a sleeve, was the tattoo of a black lotus.

John would have liked to be able to say what it meant, but he had no idea.

“It’s a gang… Chinese mafia…”

John frowned, moving closer to the screen.

“They think they are targeting normal people, but it’s not like that, it’s clearly well-planned, these people are not what they seem.” He groaned, “God, why no one can **think.** ”

He paused only one second.

“Look at that paint, they should try and look for it on the streets, it’s bound to have come from somewhere, no paint is the same if you really look into it, you know… especially Chinese samples.”

He tapped his chin, deep in thought.

“Chinese mafia here in London… it has to be something with imported goods… valuables…”

John stood up, feeling strangely nervous. “We have to do something Sherlock, we have to tell the police.”

The beast scoffed. “You forget I can’t leave this place… we both know they would never listen.”

“I can. I can leave,” he exclaimed, Sherlock looking up at him and for a moment he had the feeling he had said the wrong thing.

He received no reply, just a long thoughtful stare.

“Sherlock, I will come back. I just need to talk to an old friend, I remember him telling me that he was in contact with some DI. It’s worth a shot.” He knelt by the sofa, placing his hand on the other man’s.

It was colder than he expected, but he bit his lip and kept it there.

“It is certainly an idea,” he replied coldly, he wasn’t looking at John and he knew what the problem was.

Sherlock was scared. He was scared John wouldn’t come back.

“I promised, Sherlock… trust me, will you?” he said, standing up, soon running up the stairs to get his phone and gun.

Sherlock was standing by the window when he came back.

“Trust me, Sherlock… I am your friend,” he muttered, trying to be as reassuring as he could. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

The room just felt that bit colder, and he knew it meant nothing good.

“I have no **friends.** ”

That hurt, he realized, and he was talking before he could stop himself. Biting, sarcastic.  “I wonder why.”

He schooled his features and ran off, away from 221b Baker Street and off to find Mike.

He didn’t feel any freer though, if only, he found himself missing Sherlock, as stupid of him as it was.

 

~~

 

After checking at the morgue that, indeed, all three victims had the symbol of that Chinese gang, he was put into contact with a certain DI Dimmock.

It took longer than he wanted, and he felt like he was racing against time, but there was a purpose, and he kept going. His leg did not seize up once, which was short of miraculous compared to the shape he had been in before moving to Baker Street.

The young detective didn’t really take him seriously at first; he was mostly amused about his "conspiracy theory," but Mike was closer to him than he suspected, and it was enough to catch his attention long enough to explain.

He discovered that saying things the exact way he had heard them from Sherlock left everyone feeling quite intrigued.

He felt powerful.

In the end, the Inspector decided to try and check that what he was saying wasn’t completely bonkers.

“Are you saying that all these three people are connected to Chinese mafia?” he asked, showing him a few pictures.

“Yes, they weren’t just connected, they were probably involved.”

“Involved? You have never heard not to speak ill of the dead, Mr. Watson?”

John wanted to slap him across the face, but reckoned it was not going to help anyone.

“Don’t you see? Why would the Chinese mafia want to kill some normal people over here? They were probably working for them, and they did something they were not supposed to.”

He blinked when realization hit him.

“Like stealing something!”

“You are making this up!” the DI cried out.

“Bloody hell, can’t you see it’s just logical?”

Dimmock crossed his arms over his chest, clearly not impressed.

“And I bet they haven’t found what they were looking for… so there is going to be at least another victim…”

Still silence.

“Just check the paint, will you? There are other messages, there must be, a way for them to communicate!”

“Are you quite finished?”

John sighed. “Yes, I am… you know who to call if anything changes,” he snapped, walking away, he could hear some of the agents speaking in whispers behind him.

They thought he was crazy.

If only they knew.

~~

 

He could see Sherlock at the window when he was walking back home. He waved, but didn’t really receive a response.

He didn’t expect any.

“Useless I take it?” muttered the beast when he entered the living room. It was warmer now.

John felt at home.

“Very much so.”

“I told you.”

He shrugged, a bit disheartened, “As I said, worth a shot.”

But his heart was warm, the familiarity of this was shaking his core, it was making his knees wobble.

He had never felt quite this way.

“You have a too kind heart, John,” said Sherlock, and he clearly didn’t seem to consider it a compliment, even though it was not contempt, but fondness in his voice. 

Maybe he was imagining it.

“I am sure Mrs Hudson will make you some tea for your pains.”

“As always Sherlock, as always…” the kettle muttered from the kitchen.

Mrs Hudson was the only object living in the London apartment.

“Would you care for some biscuits, John dear?” she added amiably.

“That would be lovely,” he said sitting down, but only after placing a small package on Sherlock’s lap.

He frowned. “It is not my birthday.”

“I don’t even know when your birthday is.”

“I fail to remember it myself.”

John laughed, patting his shoulder. “Open it, then.”

Sherlock's fingers were hesitant, and John felt the temperature in the room rise slightly as the wrapping fell to the floor.

He had no need for money, what with living in the castle and all, so he reckoned he could afford a mobile contract to be debited on his bank account.

The result was the smartphone in Sherlock’s hand.

“I have seen this on the telly… they seem to think it’s an essential gadget to life nowadays,” the beast said in some sort of fascinated disapproval.

“Up to you to discover that,” muttered John, leaning closer to push a button.

He felt the other’s scent so close, he was dizzy for a moment.

“T-the most important thing is that if you push this button you can call me… it means that if I am outside… you can reach me anyway… we can talk wherever I am…” he explained, his heart inexplicably beating faster.

John felt his whole body grow hotter than ever as he said that, he almost started sweating in his suddenly too warm jumper.

Sherlock stood up, moving away from him with the phone tight in his fist.

“What I said before is true, John…” he started solemn.

The doctor frowned.

“I don’t have friends…”

“Sherlock-“

“I don’t have friends, I have just **one**.”

He found himself grinning. “And a very good one, I would say.”

Sherlock laughed. “A very good one, yes.”

That evening was very warm. He remembered falling asleep wondering if it was possible for summer to arrive at the beginning of March.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Hadrien for BETAing and advicing


	5. Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they start working on cases, John meets the rest of the family.

 

 

“Ah, look at that!” he exclaimed when he read his most recent text. He showed it to Sherlock. “They found it! The paint!”

He was suddenly smug. “I knew they would eventually take me seriously.”

Sherlock was deep in thought as he looked at the picture. “This is a code… they are numbers…” he muttered, and started writing down a series of characters.

“Numbers?”

“Yes… it has to be a book… a book all the victims owned.”

“I’ll tell them that,” he muttered, texting quickly.

Sherlock was looking at him. “I wish we could go and search for the clues ourselves…” he stopped, as if realizing he had spoken out loud.

John looked up with a half-smile. “At least we don’t get our hands dirty…”

The beast nodded, but they both knew it was not enough.

 

~~

 

At the beginning, John would get the texts on his phone, and he would show them to Sherlock, who either turned his head and sneered, or started dictating five straight messages to send back. 

After a few months, John started keeping a blog up-to-date with their cases and Sherlock was texting his days away, directly helping out anyone who needed some sort of consultation.

He was a detective alright, except for the fact that he never left their house.

Not that he needed to, most of the time.

 

~~~

 

What happened next turned out to be another headache for John.

The call was surely strange, with all the static, but he recognized the voice of Dimmock right away.

“Are you alright mate?” he asked amiably.

“Can you come outside?” asked the DI quickly.

“Outside? What for? Crime scene?” he asked curiously. Sherlock was strangely alert at his side.

John stood up, grabbing his gun and moving towards the door. “Yes, of course… I’ll get a cab…”

“John?” There was a chill of cold in the room.

“I will send you pictures as soon as I get there, yeah?” he said with a smile as he walked out.

It was very quick: He crossed the road, and then there was a black car stopping in front of him.

“JOHN!” he heard Sherlock’s voice.

Distressed, worried.

John looked up towards him and had the time to see him step onto the pavement, trying to get to him.

No sooner had Sherlock touched the ground outside their apartment that he dissolved into a cloud of dark smoke with a loud hiss, scaring to death anyone unlucky enough to pass the street in that moment.

John's heart clenched in his chest, but he had no time to feel anything other than getting knocked out of his senses and dragged into the car.

 

~~

 

When he came to, he quickly realized he had not been restrained. 

He was in a car, sitting beside a lady typing on a phone.

“Sherlock!” he gasped, remembering that frightful moment, his figure disappearing completely.

“He’s going to be alright… eventually,” the lady said with a very fake smile.

“Who are you?” he hissed.

He wanted to believe Sherlock was really going to be alright, and he tried not to worry about how long it was going to take to see him again.

She didn’t bother replying and he growled, punching the side of his door.

The car stopped suddenly and he threw himself outside, before she could even blink.

He did not like it when he didn’t have control of things.

He instinctively patted his back in search of his gun, but he wasn’t armed.

“Your gun will be given back to you shortly, John,” said a voice ten metres away from him.

A tall man with dark hair and confident eyes was dressed smartly and leaning on an umbrella that probably cost more than anything John owned put together.

There was something though, he felt something while looking at this man, something familiar. And old, very old.

“Have a seat, John,” he said, a chair appearing out of nowhere.

Where were they? It looked like an empty warehouse.

“I don’t want to sit down,” he refused, feeling quite belligerent. It was this person’s fault that Sherlock had walked out of Baker Street, it was his fault his head was now killing him.

“You don’t look very afraid,” was the only reply.

“You don’t look very frightening.”

“Ah, the bravery of a soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” the man hissed, a deep gaze never leaving the doctor’s face.

“Who are **you**?” was John's instant rebuttal. He didn’t like where this was going, and he felt strangely exposed.

“An interested party.”

“Interested in Sherlock Holmes? Are you a friend?”

“You’ve met him, how many friends do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“And what is that?”

“An enemy.”

“An enemy?” he scoffed, disbelieving.

“Surely, in his mind. My name is Mycroft.”

“You are the one who-?”

“No, of course not… but I guess you could say I am very close to the person who did.”

John’s jaw set. “Then you know how I can help him?”

Mycroft laughed. “Oh so ready to please, aren’t you? What is it, a few months that you live with him, and already you think you can lift the curse? Or is it just because you want rid of him? Is he keeping you hostage like his usual?”

The doctor frowned, this was not helping in any way, it seemed more like the stranger was trying to get information than anything else.

“You see, it is very hard to find out what he is actually doing these days, he had never been very susceptible to external magical influence, but he’s gotten better with time and it’s almost impossible to detect what he’s up to these days, and you see, his premises are a bit out of bounds for me…”

“I am not surprised,” he replied dryly.

“Precisely.”

“So you are trying to have me talk about it?”

“You are catching on.”

“What is it to you anyway? To know what he is up to?” John had no idea what he was supposed to do.

“You will surely notice that it’s always good to know what Sherlock Holmes is up to. Not to mention, there has been a lot of contact with the outside world nowadays, all thanks to you I believe, John.” He smirked, and the doctor really had no idea whether the stranger thought it was a good thing or not.

“Why don’t you **ask him** instead?”

“John John, do not be silly…”

“His disposition to talk might be better than mine,” he hissed, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

“Remarkable,” Mycroft exclaimed. “He has managed to find one as stubborn as himself.”

John just looked at him.

Mycroft laughed, tapping the umbrella on the ground. “He must think you will be able to break the curse.” He was smirking now. “And you might just do, you might just do.”

His jaw clenched again.

“Oh, but he hasn’t told you, has he? You know nothing,” the man realized, amused.

“He insists he is not allowed to talk about the curse,” John muttered miserably.

He didn’t like this one bit, to know there was yet someone else who knew what was happening, but not him.

“It is probable.” The man nodded. “That doesn’t mean he is not allowed to tell you how to break it.”

“He said it’s _impossible_ to break it.”

The man seemed to frown. “Of course he would think that. I would have agreed before meeting you.”

“Just tell me what it is I have to do,” he pleaded.

“I apologize John, it is not my place to tell you any more,” he said with a small bow, a wave of his hand and the car was coming closer, no doubt to bring him home.

“Sherlock has to remember one thing though. No one will do if he has no **feelings** … and he has always sworn he’d never have any.”

It was the last thing he remembered before waking up on the steps of his apartment.

“Sherlock!” he called out, running inside, no time to wonder what had happened to him, he needed to see whether his friend was alright.

The apartment was empty though.

The castle was empty as well, and Lestrade looked at him with a sad shake of his clock head.

“Is he coming back?” John asked him, frightened in a way he had never been.

“I don’t know…”

“Greg…”

“He should… he always did… he’s bound to this place.”

“What was he thinking? Running in the street like that…” John couldn’t help but feel guilty.

Lestrade looked at him, he was clearly concerned. “I have a theory on that, but it seems quite farfetched knowing who we are talking about…”

“What are you thinking?”

“Maybe he was worried because he knew you were going to get knocked out,” he tried, his empty eyes seemed to be nervous as he looked at the doctor.

John scoffed. “It’s not like he could have done anything about it!”

Lestrade smiled. “Maybe he didn’t stop to think about _that_.”

John blushed, turning away.

“I only hope it’s not really going to take weeks for him to come back…” he muttered, and felt a heavy weight settle in his chest. “But he’s always so precise.”

The clock tried to comfort him. “Just don’t think about it.”

Easier said than done, mostly when his life had pretty much revolved around Sherlock for the last month or so.

He buried his head in his hands, wishing he could pass out and wake up only when Sherlock was back.

 

 

 


	6. One cannot fake feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim Moriarty finally comes around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry it took so long for this to be posted, I've had it ready for ages, but my Beta disappeared so I don't have anyone to proofread for me... if there is anyone available to do that out there, please let me know...

It took exactly one week.

One week of John worrying, panicking, and, not surprisingly, missing Sherlock.

One week, then it was just the sound of a gasp, and Sherlock was again standing in the middle of their living room, looking quite shell-shocked and out of place.

John jumped off the sofa, his tea crashing on the carpet, but he did not care one bit.

“Sherlock!” he exclaimed, and the next second he was in the other’s arms, burying his head in his neck, taking in his scent, wishing with all his might that this was not a dream.

The room was suddenly warmer, almost hot, Sherlock was hot, even though he hardly moved.

“Damn, I was so worried. So worried,” John confessed, squeezing him, letting his hands wander over his back as if to check he was actually there.

Sherlock finally shifted, leaning closer and sniffing the top of John’s hair in a curious way, as if he had never been so close to anyone and could not quite trust it. Then he was tentatively shifting his arms, they slid along John’s waist, and locked to rest around John’s back. He squeezed him in return, somehow trying to do the same thing John had done before, making sure they were reunited.

“I am back,” he said, and he seemed quite surprised.

“I feared it was going to take you much longer,” John confessed, slowly pulling away.

“So did I, but apparently… I really wanted to come back this time.”

He was looking at him then, dark eyes moving on John’s soft smile, before he blinked and looked away.

The doctor was ecstatic, but he tried not to cling, he pulled away and balled his hands into fists to try and stay still. “It’s great to have you back. You should check your phone, I think you received at least twenty texts since you’ve been gone!”

Sherlock smiled, or at least he thought he saw that as he moved towards his phone.

John tried to take the sickeningly happy tone out of his voice before he spoke again, it was serious, they had to talk about this.

“You should not have run out like that…”

The detective didn’t look up. “It was highly illogical of me, I know.”

“I was fine,” he muttered, staring at him with confidence.

“I can see that now,” he replied obviously.

John had to ask himself whether wondering if he was okay was one of the reasons for which Sherlock had wished and managed to be back quickly.

“Mycroft wanted information,” he muttered, resting his side against the back of the sofa.

Sherlock sighed. “Typical of him, I had almost forgotten how dramatic he can be.”

“Who is he?” Still feeling anger pull at his stomach when talking about that day.

“He didn’t tell you?”

“He told me he is your enemy…”

Sherlock laughed, shaking his head. “What a pompous ass.”

He looked back at John. “He is my **brother** , and possibly the scariest man in the country. He has been so for many years now.”

He could see them clearer now, the similarities in their faces and postures, those things that had felt familiar in that strange man.

“He is always concerned about what I do, ironic considering I have been stuck here for so long…” he explained dryly.

John stepped closer, one hand moving of its own accord, burying itself in Sherlock’s curly dark hair as he was bent over his phone.

He just wanted to be sure he was really here.

Good excuse.

Again the temperature in the room seemed to spike. He’d have to remember to ask about that.

“I almost can’t believe you are back,” he confessed, hoping it’d be enough reason for Sherlock to not question how much he was touching him.

The beast wasn’t texting any more, his pale fingers were frozen on the pad, he just stared ahead, seemingly afraid of moving away from that hesitant touch.

“What did he tell you?” he asked after a while.

“Nothing I didn’t know already… he wanted me to remind you of something…” he answered truthfully.

“What is it?”

“That you must have feelings for the curse to break.”

Sherlock frowned at the wall in front of him. “Ironic.”

“What does it mean Sherlock? How do you break the curse?” he tried again, and this time the detective turned towards him with his dark eyes, they were soft though, shaking.

John’s fingers moved of their own accord, they slid softly along the beast’s cheekbones before falling away to settle on his shoulder.

For a long moment he thought he had lost his breath.

“I am scared of telling you,” was the answer, it was a soft whisper that seemed to wrap around him in a cold shiver.

So many scenarios flashed into John’s mind at the time, he wasn’t sure what it could be, but he wondered whether it was some kind of sacrifice that was needed on his part.

It didn’t matter in that moment though, because all he could think about then was how soft Sherlock’s lips looked. How much he wanted to show that he wouldn’t be easily scared away.

He squeezed his shoulder; he was about to gather his nerves and actually kiss him, he was going to do it and stop fantasizing about it, but it was then that his phone rang and scared him out of his wits.

“Holy shit,” he exclaimed, putting a hand on his heart.

“It’s Sarah,” was Sherlock’s icy reply, and he was frowning, probably feeling himself how the room seemed to plunge into a cold he hadn’t felt for a while.

John wondered how he knew, considering he was taking out his phone only then, but having in mind the many odd things that happened in the castle, he didn’t give it much thought.

“Do you mind..?” he asked, signalling towards the phone, considering how they had parted the last time they had seen each other, he didn’t think ignoring the call was an option, not if he wanted her to avoid sending search parties towards the castle.

Sherlock didn’t even reply, he just turned the other way, watching his own phone and texting away.

The room kept getting colder though.

He frowned, but decided to answer nonetheless, he was rather sure standing there like an idiot wasn’t going to improve anyone’s mood.

“Hello?” he muttered, turning towards the kitchen in search of privacy.

The possibility that Sherlock would listen in seemed unlikely, as uncaring as the other always seemed to be, but he felt it wasn’t completely out of character.

The beast was curious after all.

Not that he had anything to hide.

“John, oh god! You are alright, are you?” came a worried tone from the other side of the line.

“Of course I am alright, why wouldn’t I be?” he exclaimed, for some reason instantly annoyed. He didn’t want to be on the phone right now, he could still feel his fingers tingle with the feeling of Sherlock’s hair on his skin.

“ _Why wouldn’t you be_? Are you kidding me? I left you with that awful beast last time!”

“He is actually not that bad,” he said with a smile, sitting down on his favourite armchair.

“Not that bad? You have to be mad! I have never been so scared in my life… I still try to think about that as an elaborate nightmare! I wanted to send the police… I wanted someone to look for you… but they said… they said-”

“I assure you I am perfectly fine,” he said dryly, he really didn’t want to talk about this. He wasn’t sure how to deal with Sarah’s worried tone, it felt like it had nothing to do with him.

He was happy here.

He had never been happy before.

“I know _now_ , and I am very thankful, I had no idea I could just call you! How silly of me!” she muttered, clearly nervous, “I decided to try because… well, I received a call from Mike telling me he met you!”

“You spoke to Mike?”

“Yes, I sincerely thought he was talking nonsense… he told me he saw you in London!”

“Yeah, I am hanging around London at times…” he muttered, hoping for her not to pry further, how could he explain his mysterious movements?

“It’s… I don’t know what to think…” She paused, she seemed to be hesitant, unsure. “Are you ever coming back to the village? Everyone is worried about you… Harry in particular…” 

“I don’t think-“

“I miss you,” she said finally, and it was a breech to the rules they had put after deciding to be just friends. He knew it meant much more than she was actually saying and it was not good, not good at all.

What was he supposed to reply to that?

He hardly thought about her, he hardly thought about anything that wasn’t Sherlock.

“I… er… it’s complicated,” was all he could reply at the moment.

“Ah… I am sorry John… you probably moved on by now… I just… I was worried…” she confessed, and he felt like quite the arse.

“Don’t be. I am fine.”

They exchanged awkward goodbyes, the only way they could be after such a conversation, and he was staring at the fireplace with his phone in his hand, the line dead.

“You _could_ go visit her,” said Sherlock then, eyes still fixed on his own mobile.

“I could,” he replied simply, it was true.

A long pause before he talked again.

“Do you want to?”

“Not particularly, no.”

Sherlock was frowning when he spoke next.

“Were you together when you decided to sacrifice yourself for her?”

“Excuse me?” he exclaimed surprised, looking up in search of the other’s eyes.

“When you decided to stay here, you decided to swap with her, was it because you were in love with her? Because you wanted to protect her?” he asked, and he was glaring at his phone now.

“No, we weren’t together. And you know very well I **wanted** to stay here,” he replied, annoyed by the grilling he didn’t think he deserved.

“But you clearly wanted to protect her as well, it was one of the reasons why you went to look for her in the first place. You have a bit of the hero syndrome,” Sherlock snapped.

John’s eyebrow rose in surprise.

“If you say so.”

“I don’t just say so. I know as much.” So sure of himself.

The doctor felt a bit uneasy. “I do not feel like a hero. I do what I feel like most of the time, and that seems quite selfish to me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That is what makes you even more bloody heroic, you do not even realize what you are doing, you are just doing it!”

He straightened his shoulders, he knew what all this was about. “If this is about breaking the curse, Sherlock, I do not want to do it just because I feel I have to…”

Sherlock looked at him quite disbelieving, and John felt anger boil up in his chest.

“It’s because I want you to _be free_ , I want you to be able to go out there and do what you do, to have a chance at happiness like everyone else, for God’s sake. I can’t believe you are so daft as to assume it is for any other reason!” he snapped.

The beast was clearly surprised, and his gaze softened somehow. “John…” he shook his head. “That’s not going to be enough…” he muttered, and once again the doctor had no idea what to think.

He felt like Sherlock had stabbed him right in the middle of his stomach, leaving him slowly bleeding. He wanted to be able to do something! He wanted to help Sherlock, and most of all, he wanted Sherlock to be free, to have a normal life!

Why couldn’t he be enough?

His feelings were stronger than he would admit, and in that moment he felt caged, frustrated, he felt like the room was too small for him, he felt he could burst and say things he would regret.

“Fine, okay,” he muttered, turning on his heels and leaving the room.

He needed air, he needed movement.

How could Sherlock not realize just how much he really cared?

 

~~~~

 

“Hello?” he heard the voice as he was having a slow stroll in the garden, trying to calm down after his row with Sherlock.

It felt like they had talked about all the wrong things anyway.

The voice was familiar, but he could not place it.

“Who is it?” he called out, rushing towards the entrance, he had a feeling it was not a good idea to have anyone snoop around.

“John, is that you?”

He felt a long shiver run up his spine, he sincerely hoped it was not who he thought it was.

As if to respond to his thoughts, the figure of Jim Moriarty appeared in the path, moving in from the high gate. He was looking around with curiosity, clearly impressed by what he was seeing.

“Jim, what are you doing here?” he asked, and he was clearly not happy.

“What do you mean? I came to look for you, Sarah told me you were here,” He muttered with a sly smile. “We all miss you at the village.”

John wanted to scoff, because he really did not miss **them** , but he tried to be polite, because he had learned long ago that it was the easiest way to get rid of people anyway.

Without shooting them, that is.

“I had no idea I would find you in a place like **this** ,” Jim muttered, stretching his neck as he looked at him.

He felt himself grow nervous; it felt like Moriarty knew something about the place.

John was sure it was not a good thing.

“But again, I’ve always known you were special,” he added rather enthusiastically, and patted John’s shoulder affectionately.

“Thanks?” he replied uncomfortably. “I am just a guest here, Jim, so it’s not like I can really invite you in.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. It’s such a **peculiar** place; it must be a joy to explore,” he replied with a longing look towards the main door.

“It’s just cold and gloomy,” he said without thinking.

“I am sure it is…” he was smirking, his voice lowered then: “But you like it nonetheless, don’t you?”

“John?” was Sherlock’s voice.

The doctor turned around abruptly, wishing with all his might that he had not been heard. But again, he had said the truth. It **was** cold and gloomy, he just felt completely at home in it.

The beast looked at Jim Moriarty, then at John.

“Who is he?”

Jim seemed to perk up, skipping closer to the beast, oddly excited. “I see why you never visit any more, someone is keeping you away,” he commented and bowed slightly to Sherlock.

“My name is Jim, I am one of John’s many admirers.”

The beast frowned at him, but said nothing.

There was a long silence as they looked at each other.

John could feel the tension thicken, but he had no idea what to do.

“You should not have come. This is a dangerous place even for you,” said Sherlock slowly, looking at Jim with his dark inhuman eyes in a way that made John’s soul freeze. It was dangerous, somehow he was painfully aware of that.

“I know,” chuckled Jim, rolling his eyes the next second. “But it’s so much _fun!_  Besides, I missed John… the only interesting guy in ages…” was Jim’s sing-song reply.

The army doctor was speechless, unable to follow the conversation at all.

“But of course he would be with someone just as interesting,” sneered Jim eventually, tired of waiting for some sort of reply from Sherlock.

When it still did not come, he turned on his heels.

“Very well, I will see you next time then.”

He looked directly at John. “There **is** going to be a next time.”

John really didn’t like the idea, he realized, his gaze staying on Jim’s back until he was sure he was gone.

Only then he followed Sherlock inside.

The whole experience had been oddly unsettling.

“How could you do something like that?” was Sherlock’s shout once they were inside.

The doctor gaped as he was abruptly dragged out of his thoughts.

“Excuse me?”

“How could you let him in? I thought you **cared** for this place! Or maybe is it too **dark and gloomy** for you?” he hissed accusingly.

Confusion was all over his face, and Sherlock frowned.

“I have no idea what you are talking about!” protested John, his voice shaking slightly, he was trying to understand how any of that could be his fault, not to mention he had no idea why the beast was so angry. “He was already in the garden when I found him! **I** stopped him from going inside! And I was just trying to make him lose interest,” he explained confused, not sure why he was trying to justify himself anyway.

“No, it can’t be, no one can come here uninvited,” hissed Sherlock, his eyes moving restless in front of him.

“I did.”

Sherlock frowned further. “You are **not** him.”

“What about him?” he grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, making him turn around, he wanted answers.

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Who is he?” he insisted, blue eyes bearing into the other’s angry gaze.

“He is a sorcerer… a powerful one… don’t you see it? Don’t you **feel** it? I had no idea you meddled with that kind, John,” he seemed to be truly disappointed.

The doctor had no idea why Sherlock hardly made sense at the moment.

“ **He** is the one who created that Tabecuo!” he added, slapping his hand away and going back to walking towards the library.

John felt his breath catch in his throat.

“Jim Moriarty?” he muttered as he tried to catch up.

“That seems to be the name he uses, yes… it’s probably fake, names are way too important…” he said, clearly replaying everything that had happened in his head.

“I had no idea, I mean… he was just one of those guys from the village…”

“One of your _admirers_?” he snapped, looking at him, challenging him to deny it.

John frowned. “I guess… but what does it have to do with anything?”

“Have you got a kink for catching wizards’ affection or something?” boomed Sherlock’s voice, annoyed, angry even.

John blinked. “What?”

“Forget it! Just… God, we **have** to find a way that stops him from coming back… you don’t know his kind John…”

He truly did not, and John felt panic grow in his chest, seeing Sherlock so worried for the first time since he had moved into the castle was upsetting to say the least.

“He will stop to nothing, just to have your soul. Of course he would take a liking in yours, how could I not foresee this!” he exclaimed in frustration.

John reached out again, hands settling around Sherlock’s elbow, stopping his flailing for a short while.

“Sherlock!” he tried to grab his shoulders.

“This is very serious, John,” he snapped, clearly overwhelmed.

“I get it, okay, I believe you, of course I believe you,” he said, finally placing his hands at the sides of his neck, his fingertips brushing his ears. “But you aren’t going to be able to do anything if you don’t calm down.”

“Calm down?” he asked, apparently quite surprised. “I am…” he seemed to be checking himself. “Nervous… indeed… I feel… _nervous_ …” Shock was all over his face. “This is odd.”

John smiled a bit. “He is gone for now, so there is no need to have a nervous breakdown.”

Sherlock took in a deep breath and then found himself laughing. “I would never… I am too rational for that.”

“One cannot see _that_ at the moment,” John joked with a grin.

“Piss off,” he replied with just the same grin, a bit shaky, but it was there, the doctor could see it

  


~~~

 

They spent the whole night in the library, John sitting by the fire with a book he didn’t understand and Sherlock doing all sorts of things with his, what he concluded to be, potions cabinet.

“This won’t do!” he groaned at some point, slamming the book closed and throwing the vial he had in his hand against the nearest wall.

John jumped, realizing only then that he had been dozing off.

“What’s wrong?”

“I am trying to update the defences of this place, but I can’t… I am not… God, this damn curse!” he swirled on his place, looking at all his books and clearly thinking out loud. “I will have to speak to Mycroft. I am never going to hear the end of it, but I can’t have Moriarty come back here, at all costs.”

The doctor stretched, “You reckon he will ask you something in return?”

“He surely will,” but that was hardly the problem.

He looked up at him, scratching his head. “Maybe I should just go. I mean, this has nothing to do with you, he wants **me** … and I surely don’t want to put everyone in danger.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Shut up, John.”

The doctor frowned, he was rather sure he didn’t deserve that. “I take that as a no, don’t even think about it.”

“If only I had a pinch of my powers left…” he whispered, looking straight at John, but he doubted he was actually looking at him.

“You have to tell me how to lift the curse, then…” he noted off-handedly.

Sherlock walked closer, he was clearly taking a deep breath.

“I guess I have to.”

John blinked, he didn’t expect to finally receive a positive answer, and his heart started beating faster right away.

The beast knelt beside him, looking at him.

A short pause to collect his thoughts before he started speaking.

“John… please don’t get angry… don’t let things get awkward…” he pleaded first. “It is the only option I have left, I have to tell you…” he whispered, taking his hand in his own. “I **need** to be able to protect you.”

John’s heart seemed to be stuck in his throat, he could only nod, scared of what was going to happen.

“I am going to tell you something now… you… you should reply… but please be honest,” he whispered, leaning closer, squeezing his hand.

John realized Sherlock was shaking.

“I love you,” he whispered with that voice, that sweet whisper that could melt him completely.

His heart was thrumming in his ears now, his face was completely red, but he knew what the only answer could be.

“I love you, too.”

For a second he saw a flicker of clear grey in Sherlock’s eyes, but it was soon gone, and they seemed to be waiting for nothing.

The soft happiness that had formed a smile on the beast’s lips for a second was now gone, and he looked completely miserable.

“God… John…” he muttered, and he had never heard him sound so upset. “I thought…”

The room was suddenly freezing, Sherlock’s hand burned cold and it hurt, so much.

John did not pull away, he was never going to pull away from him.

Sherlock noticed though and stood up, letting go of him and moving towards the farthest corner.

“You should go,” he hissed from the dark.

How could it so dark even though the fire burning in the fireplace?

John didn’t want to go, he wanted to hug him, he wanted to kiss him, but something had gone terribly wrong and he was afraid it had all been his fault.

“Sherlock… I want-“

“Don’t you dare come any closer!” he growled.

He froze; the fire that was supposed to warm the room expired with a hiss.

“I am sorry…” he muttered, because he had no idea what else he could do.

“Ah, ironic… but there is nothing we can do… nothing **I** can do… I was right all along, it’s impossible to break it…” he sighed, looking at his experiments’ table. “It’s not your fault… you are a good friend, John… but one cannot fake feelings…”

John stared at him, his heart plummeting down, he thought he could hear the sound of it crashing on the floor.

“You mean… you didn’t…” he felt his throat go dry and nausea dizzying his brain.

Sherlock had lied?

_You didn’t mean it…_

_Sherlock needs to remember he has to_ have feelings _…_

The cold was starting to seep through his skin then.

“Very well. Fine. I understand. Of course,” he muttered, turning on his heels and marching out, a strange void in his chest.

How could he even think Sherlock would love **him**?

 


	7. Silly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resolution.  
> Moriarty comes back as he promised and Sherlock has to risk everything to keep John from harm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the story, set the morning after the end of last chapter.
> 
> The next chapter will be an epilogue.
> 
> The high rating was put basically for this chapter >> so yeah, beware the smut.

 

 

 

It was the biting cold that woke John up.

His eyelids felt heavy, but he saw his feet in the snow, and then in the water, freezing water.

He was moving, but he didn’t want to.

He was not in control of his body, and that was enough to awake him completely.

“What the-?” he stuttered, his mouth wasn’t responding very well, and it hurt like hell to move his head and gather his surroundings.

He was in the garden, by the lake at the furthest north, and he was slowly plunging into the water.

He glanced to the other side and there was Moriarty there, smirking at him. “I told you I was going to see you again,” he muttered, his head twisting a bit to the side.

John struggled, but he could only delay his descent in the cold water. 

“You shouldn’t do that, you know… the more you fight it, the more time you are going to spend in the water… and I would prefer for you not to die… **yet** ,” explained Moriarty, he wasn’t shouting, it was like he could speak in John’s head.

The doctor groaned, the pain was becoming unbearable.

“It is partly **your** fault, you know… what with all these new spells keeping me out. You shouldn’t have let your boyfriend do that. I do not like to be challenged,” he hissed, tapping his finger against his cheek.

He looked mad.

John felt he hated him with a passion.

He couldn’t really think about how much he wanted to kill him though, because the water was now at his chest and he was positively plunging into hypothermia.

A hand grabbed his shoulder at that point though; inhuman strength dragged him backwards and to the shore.

_Sherlock._

Thank God.

“You again!” Moriarty snapped. “How difficult can it be to kill you!?” he complained.

“Your tricks are old jokes for me, curse or not,” Sherlock hissed back, clearly not amused by what had been happening.

He was looking at Moriarty, but his hand was on John’s shoulder.

“I’m alright. I’m fine,” he tried to say, cupping Sherlock’s hand, yes, he was shivering and shaking, but he was going to be okay.

“I have clearly underestimated you,” muttered Jim, his arms stretching along his sides, palms upwards, and there was a strong light coming towards them.

Sherlock didn’t even blink. “Clearly,” he repeated when it hissed into nothing.

“This isn’t something **you** made… you asked for someone to  **help**  you?” hissed Moriarty in clear realization.

“Did you think I would let you get to John that easily? I was not born yesterday,” replied Sherlock, annoyed.

“I did not expect Sherlock Holmes to rely on anyone other than himself,” he scoffed, and the beast frowned.

“You did your research,” he noted dryly.

“It is hardly possible to become a dark wizard without hearing of your story. I have never thought you would be real though. I have to admit as much,” he said with a smug grin. “Trust precious John to lead me to such an interesting discovery.”

John was still panting, straining to sit up, his whole body was sore.

“You are never going to have him.” Sherlock’s voice was suddenly powerful, quite scary if he had to say.

“Oh yes? And what do you think you can do to prevent me? _Smoke_ on me?” Jim replied amused, his body slowly levitating from the ground, moving over the lake. “Boundaries are such a funny thing, one can always stretch them a bit… And guess what? You are close enough…”

 

Sherlock glared at him, his own body starting to move towards the lake, seemingly effortlessly.

“Do not underestimate me again,” he warned him. 

Moriarty laughed. “I know exactly what you are capable of, Sherlock… and that is _almost nothing_. Your powers have been taken away, remember? Who would have thought a mother would do something so terrible to her own son?”

John’s eyes were wide as he took in the scene and piece of information; Mycroft’s words were making a lot more sense now.

Sherlock was quite menacing, surrounded by a dark force when even Moriarty’s power seemed to come from light.

Darkness was stronger than light, John tried to tell himself, but he was worried sick. He needed to do something.

“Leave him alone! I will come willingly if you leave him alone!” he shouted, trying hard not to let his voice fail him. 

“Shut up, John!” they both hissed in unison, and he blinked in surprise.

“Do you think you can still remember how to do magic?” Moriarty taunted with that mad voice of his. “Your silly potions cannot help you here.” 

“You are in my home, Moriarty, I really wouldn’t be so arrogant if I were you,” he warned him. 

The sorcerer was smirking in a menacing way that didn’t promise anything good.

There was a cracking sound and his hand had passed the invisible barrier that had protected them till that moment, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist and making him kneel to the force of his magic.

“You surprise me, Sherlock… I didn’t think you would let me this close…” he hissed, his strength seemed to be more than what the beast could endure, but he was still fighting, keeping his head up.

 “You are so silly… you fancy yourself to be in love? Sacrificing yourself for our John?” 

Sherlock just stared at him, his body seemed to be losing consistency, there was dark smoke wrapping around them. 

“Did you even tell him? Because truly, you cannot expect to survive this, nor can he.”

He took out a knife, it was oddly familiar, the very same that had been in the Tabecuo’s hand. “You remember this, don’t you?”

John looked at his hands miserably, he had to do something.

It was then that he saw it. 

His gun. A few feet away from him.

He didn’t stop to think whether it would work, he just concentrated on the fact that he couldn’t let anything happen to Sherlock.

So he aimed.

They were far from him, up above, but he was good at this, he had done it a thousand times during the war.

 

He shot him.

 

He shot Moriarty just as he did the Tabecuo.

 

And just like him, the sorcerer had the time to look surprised, before he disappeared into thin air.

The magic seemed to disappear as well, and Sherlock fell in the lake.

John had no idea how he managed to bring him back to the firm ground, and into the house.

“I knew you would do that,” the beast said with a soft smile as he tried to walk towards the library, John holding him up.

“I don’t like for random people to shut me up, you know,” he replied with a grin.

Sherlock laughed. “I know. I counted on that.”

“So you knew I would shoot him,” he muttered, looking at him sheepishly.

“I knew you would do something to help, you always do,” replied Sherlock with a soft fond smile.

"That’s why you brought my gun... but… You did something to it..."

“Maybe."

"I can't believe you pimped up my gun."

 

~~

 

They stripped their wet clothes off, blankets and towels were provided for them, and they sat in front of the fireplace to warm up, slowly coming down from the high of adrenaline. 

It was queer. A bit embarrassing and John had the feeling they had to talk, to straighten things out.

“Is it true then? Your mother created this… curse?” he asked eventually, he reckoned it was time to get even, considering they both knew now that he couldn’t break the curse. 

Sherlock nodded. “She believed it to be necessary.”

“How could she?” he muttered, and he felt oddly protective. 

“I…” he stopped, thinking about it for a moment before replying. “I have never been a good person, John.”

“That is what people say, not necessarily the truth,” he pointed out stubborn.

"Your kindness is touching really,” he commented amused, “But it is true. I cared for magic and the advancement of magic more than I cared for anyone… even myself.”

It cost Sherlock a lot to admit this, he had never thought he would. John had worked magic on him, and he clearly had no idea.

“So they decided to lock you up? Very nice family, really,” he commented sarcastic.

Sherlock was amused by his reaction. “You make it sound like a personal insult to you.”

John blushed, looking at the fire. “So what is this curse exactly?” 

“You have seen it, I am sure you picked it up,” he went on anyway. “Mommy wanted people to be able to see not what I acted out to be when I needed something, but what was in my heart… so she made me this way, I am a dark shadow because that’s what is inside me. The unnatural cold that people feel when they are with me… that is the direct mirror of my heart.”

John was frowning through the explanation, but he felt himself smile when he realized that the temperature changes finally made sense.

“And love is supposed to break the curse?” he asked. 

Sherlock nodded grimly.

“I have to love and be loved in return. As you can imagine, quite the impossible task when one is like me. I used to scare people away even before the curse.”

"But that's because you don't want them close," pointed out the doctor.

"That doesn't really make me a better person..."

John shook his head. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” he looked at the fire, feeling his heart heavy in his chest. “Even if you can’t love _me_ … I am sure there is someone out there you can connect to.” It hurt to think about Sherlock with someone else, it did, but he wanted the best for him, he could not be selfish about something like this.

The beast looked up then, clearly confused.

“You are not as cold as you think anyway,” continued John. “Sometimes you are very warm… sometimes you are even hot… I think that is proof enough that you do have feelings,” he said and turned to look at him, wishing he wasn’t showing himself to be as broken as he felt.

Sherlock wrapped himself further in his blanket. “Do not look at me like that John… you look sad… I do not approve of you being sad,” he muttered, and bit on his lower lip. “What you said before? You really think the curse didn’t break because I don’t really love you?” he asked, his voice seemed to be shaking.

John frowned. “You said it yourself, you can’t fake feelings…”

“I wasn’t talking about **my** feelings. I did not lie when I said I loved you!” he protested and John was clearly shocked beside him. "I might be inexperienced in the emotional department, but even a child would be able to figure out what it is you make me feel. And I am old, John, I have learned to know myself."

“You thought  **I** didn’t mean it?” Was the only shocked reply.

“Well, something had to be off, it didn’t work, I am sure you noticed that much,” he protested haughtily. 

“ _I_ was not  _off_ , I love you as much as I can possibly do without withering away!” he protested, face red.

Sherlock smiled, then laughed, quite disbelieving. “You do?”

“Bloody hell…” he muttered, and he decided to show him just how much he meant it. 

He turned to face him and let go of his blanket to reach out for him. He grabbed the back of his neck and pushed their heads together in a burning kiss.

He literally devoured the other’s mouth.

Tasting every last bit of him like he’d wanted to, possibly from the first day they met.

Sherlock had been too surprised to react, the other’s tongue sliding in between his shocked lips and there was just John’s flavour.

When John pulled away, he was dazed and confused.

“That felt nice,” he whispered, even though he felt it was a bit of an understatement.

John wanted to roll his eyes, but what came out was just a silly smile. “Care for a repeat?”

 “Please,” he muttered, and this time he leaned closer willingly, pressing his lips against John’s and sliding their tongues together with a bit of confidence.

John thought he felt warm. Not hot, just naturally warm.

Sherlock eagerly obliged when pulled closer and soon he was straddling John's hips, the blanket sliding off his chest.

The skin exposed in the process made John sigh in wonder, he had wanted so much to touch him. 

“You know… I’ve been trapped for a hundred years…” whispered Sherlock, he was arching against John's fingers, needy of contact. 

“I cannot really relate..." He replied, burying his hands in the other's dark hair, pulling him closer. "But it feels like I have waited so much…” he confessed against his lips, "Nothing has ever felt right before." He had never felt so alive as in that moment, kissing down Sherlock’s neck.

The skin was so smooth and pale, it tasted like Sherlock in its purest form, he didn't think he could ever have enough of it.

"It does..." Sherlock murmured. "It does feel... so right," he added, their hips slotting together, and he was panting in surprise, while John was groaning against his collarbone.

"Go on," he whimpered, pushing away the blanket that was still loose on John's shoulders, so he too could touch the skin, bury his face in the other’s warmth. "Don't stop..." he had never thought he would need someone else so badly.

They were just in their pants, and it felt like electricity was going through the fabric as their hips met.

"It's not enough…" John growled at some point, hands diving lower grabbing the other's ass and bringing them even closer again.

"I know... Yes..." Was Sherlock's reply and he was mouthing wet kisses to his shoulder, tracing the tense muscles.

He reached out one hand in the air beside them, and the next second he was pressing on John's chest lube and condoms summoned from who-knows-where.

"I believe this is what's conventionally required nowadays."

John stopped worrying the other man's earlobe to look and nodded, not really caring where it actually came from. Magic was relatively new to him, but it turned out to be quite easy to get used to.

"Yes, perfect..." he whispered unwillingly tearing himself away from his sweet skin so he could pull down Sherlock's pants.

After a bit of fumbling they were both naked and they joined again like they were magnets, not even able to take time to just look at each other.

They were both afraid it was just a dream they were to wake up from.

"Will you?" Asked Sherlock, laying back, his hands sprawling at his sides, his face determined.

John was surprised, he would have never though Sherlock would surrender himself willingly to anyone.  
"You want me to-?"

Sherlock nodded, cheeks uncharacteristically red. "Yes."

John felt his throat go dry as he replied: "Alright, yeah, of course."

Hands slid along the other's thighs, watching the other's erection as he lifted his knee.

He wasn't exactly experienced in this, and it struck him as something ironic that he felt he needed this at all.

It was as if all this was essential for his life to have a meaning. And it wasn’t just sex, it was about having Sherlock, being close to Sherlock, he truly couldn’t believe how much he wanted this.

He took the lube with shaky hands, squeezing a bit on his fingers.  
Sherlock was staring at him with curiosity, it was quite evident that even though he knew what was supposed to happen, he had never been part of anything like it, and he found it fascinating to say the least.

"You sure about this?" he had to ask, especially if it was Sherlock's first time with a man.

The beast smiled in a way he had never seen before, his eyes were a beautiful grey. They were _their real colour_ for the first time since John had met him, the usual unnatural blackness was gone.

They were breathtakingly beautiful.

"Don't be so considerate John, I want you," he scolded him. "I have never thought I would want anyone ever... But I want you, all of you..."

John smiled back, "That's good. Very good actually," and he didn't let himself hesitate, sliding one finger up to graze around Sherlock's hole and tracing the muscles tentatively.

Sherlock breathed in quickly, quite overwhelmed.

"Try to relax..." he muttered, poking that entrance and slowly sliding his finger inside.

Sherlock was quite the fast learner and had a good control on his whole body, it didn't take John long to prepare him.

He really didn't think he could survive watching him arch on his fingers for any longer, so he pulled them away with a groan.  
His arousal was throbbing in want.

"Okay..." he whispered, putting on a condom, Sherlock's eyes were heavy lidded as he watched him.

He parted his legs even further, welcoming him close.

"It's gonna hurt... But we'll go slowly..." he whispered, trying to be reassuring, "Just… Don't turn me into a frog."

Sherlock laughed softly, wrapping his arms around his shoulders as their bodies slid together, "I will try not to."

He figured it was reassurance enough, and again, the risk was worth taking, he thought as he slowly reached down to position himself against the other’s hole.

“Talk to me… ok? We can stop if it hurts too much…” he whispered, pushing the tip of his cock inside.

Sherlock tensed in pain, biting on his lip with an uncharacteristically coy expression. “Nothing would stop me from wanting this, John…” he whispered in between shallow breaths. “Go on.”

He nodded, pushing farther inside, groaning as he tried not to lose control of his legs. He rested his face on the other’s chest once he was all in, breathing in his scent, taking in the feelings that crawled up his spine.

They were together now, no one would be able to take that away from him, curse or not.

“John.” It was a soft moan, broken by a feeling he could not place, Sherlock’s fingers moved up his back, urging him to move.

“Yes,” he whispered, kissing his chest before he held himself up and started to thrust his hips.

It took him a while to reach a decent rhythm, but Sherlock was enjoying everything with an eagerness he usually had for really complicated riddles, he was arching his back, and meeting each movement with want and burning lust.

“Ah, John,” he groaned, grabbing his hand, squeezing it, his eyes were open, filled with so many wonderful feelings.

John was hardly able to think about what he was doing, lost in the perfect way they seemed to fit with each other, lost in his eyes.

He felt his orgasm build, it was throbbing in his veins ready to burst and he reached out to find Sherlock’s erection, pumping on it in time with his thrusts.

Sherlock was soon writhing under him and he came with a startled cry of John’s name, making him groan at the way his muscles clenched around him.

“Bloody hell,” he whimpered, pushing his hips ahead one last time before he was hit by his own high.

He collapsed on top of Sherlock, burying his face in his neck. In that secret moment he decided this was going to be his favourite place in the whole world. From now on, forever.

“You are perfect, you know…” whispered Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him.

“Mm?” he muttered, looking up, his breath catching in his throat when he saw those eyes again.

“You seem to always think you are not enough…” explained Sherlock, one hand slowly caressing his hair. “But you are more than everything to me… more than perfect…” he took in another deep breath, “I love you.”

John smiled softly. “I really meant it, Sherlock, I love you, too. Please believe me.”

The other man kissed his forehead. “I do. I do believe you… it’s impossible for me not to trust you.”

John wanted to say more, so much more, he wanted Sherlock never to doubt what they had, he wanted to ask Sherlock to stay with him, he wanted so much, so many things, but a sudden sound coming from the hallway, approaching footsteps, made them jump.

The doctor could only reach out for a blanket to cover them, before the door burst open.

“Sherlock!”

The man standing there was smiling brightly, he was ecstatic really. John thought he had never seen the tall man before in his life, but he was beaming at him, seemingly unaware of the awkward situation.

“You did it! John! You did it!”

The doctor turned completely red at that, one thing was getting caught naked on the library floor with another man, but a stranger pointing out the obvious seemed to be quite too much.

“Excuse me?”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide, he looked at the man, he looked at his hands, then he was smiling.

“Lestrade! You are quite right for once!”

The doctor blinked, not following: “Lestrade?” he wondered, looking at the man, and then it dawned on him.

“The curse! It’s been broken!” he exclaimed and had only the time to look up at Sherlock, before the other leaned down and kissed him so passionately that for a moment he thought they were going to start all over in front of Lestrade.

The servant coughed.

“We get it, yes, you found love,” he commented, laughing a bit.

John was quite dazed when they pulled apart, he looked into the other’s eyes, then at Lestrade.

“Do you have any orders, master? The castle is in quite the disarray at the moment, as you can imagine.”

Sherlock sighed, clearly annoyed by the idea. “There are a lot of things we have to arrange… we live in a different time now… not to mention my brother will probably visit soon.”

John froze at the idea, feeling strangely naked at the moment, which was rather ironic considering he actually was.

“Gather everyone who hasn’t already run away in the main reception room… I will be there shortly,” he ordered.

Lestrade bowed politely and winked at John before he left.

“So you did it at the end, John,” whispered Sherlock, caressing his cheek. “It was silly of me, wasn’t it? To doubt you. If there was anyone who could do it, then it had to be you…”

John frowned a bit. “But how?”

“The kiss. I imagine, _you_ , John Watson, have the tendency of making me lose my mind, so I really did not realize… but of course, the power of true love’s first kiss… that’s one of the strongest things when it comes to curses… I lack greatly in knowledge of these things however, it really was not my favourite department of study,” he explained with an uncharacteristically besotted smile.

“So the reason why you didn’t turn before was that…”

“We didn’t kiss…” he shook his head.

“That’s quite a silly mistake,” he commented.

“It was, that’s how stupid you make me,” commented Sherlock.

The doctor nodded, he felt something at the back of his stomach, it wasn’t pleasant, but he was not sure what it was. “Your eyes are grey… they are beautiful…” he whispered, closing his eyes for a moment.

Sherlock sensed something off in the words, he wasn’t good with these things, but he was observant, he had always been.

“Don’t,” he muttered. “Don’t close yourself off, John…”

He looked up, trying to understand himself. “I guess I am jealous, Sherlock…”

The other frowned, he didn’t understand.

“You are free now…” he tried to explain. “You have your powers back, you have the world to explore… I am just-”

“Don’t!” he warned him, pinning him with his gaze. “Don’t underestimate what happened between us, John.”

John frowned. “I am not-“

“Yes, you are. I am not willing to let you go because you have the sudden thought I would be happier with some other imaginary person you consider yourself inferior to.”

The doctor didn’t know what to say to that.

“It took me a hundred years to find you… the world might offer some excitement now, but I wouldn’t trade it for you, ever… I want a real life only in the condition that you will be in it,” he muttered, and it would have been incredibly romantic if it wasn’t for the fact that Sherlock looked incredibly annoyed while saying those things. “So stop being daft.”

John had to laugh at that. “So what does that make us?”

“Lovers? Partners? Anything you want as long as you stay with me.”

“I can imagine myself nowhere else, Sherlock.” He confessed, letting himself feel secure for a moment.

It had to be different this time.

It felt different.

 

 


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a sweet epilogue to wrap things up

 

 

It was not easy to organize the new lives of almost a hundred servants, they were scared, they were unprepared, and if he had to quote Sherlock, they were too stupid to remember how to breathe.

They were eager though, they were excited about the idea that they were going to be free, a concept that did not apply only to their human looks, but also to civil rights they had no idea they were entitled to.

The most independent ones were sent out to London with new identities and memories, courtesy of Mycroft, while the rest settled in the outskirts of the village, living a life very similar to the one they had been used to.

Only two decided to stay.

Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.

They heartily declared a long string of excuses to their decision, but John knew it was because they somehow cared for Sherlock.

He understood completely, of course, because Sherlock seemed to be awful at taking care of himself, as clever as he was.

Not a lot of things changed for the two of them then, they always had the castle, they always had their apartment in Baker Street, but they were sharing a room and they hardly spent time apart.

They were a real couple, they were functional, John had no idea love could be like this at all.

 

 

“I knew you were going to do just fine,” said Mycroft, appearing in their apartment a few weeks after all the servants were gone; Sherlock had ventured to the supermarket, trying to wrap his head around modern consumerism.

John looked at him with an eyebrow curled in disbelief: “No, you didn’t.”

“I had hopes,” he muttered, and sat in front of him, even though the doctor did not offer. He still couldn’t accept the fact Sherlock’s family had been the one who trapped him for so long.

He stared at him, clearly disapproving.

Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor. “You shouldn’t be so stubborn, John. We are family now.”

“I don’t think so,” he replied coldly.

“You should let it go. I did not agree with mommy, you know… I tried to reason with her…”

John didn’t seem convinced.

“She was concerned, very concerned about Sherlock… the world couldn’t afford to have a dark wizard as powerful and clever as Sherlock, you should know that,” he explained stubborn.

“The coldness you accused Sherlock to possess is no different to the one it takes to cast such a spell on a whole castle,” he pointed out merciless.

Mycroft seemed surprised for a moment, but then he focused his narrow ironic eyes on him again. “She was convinced it was for the greater good… and trust me, she felt very guilty afterwards…”

John rolled his eyes: “Of course.”

“Besides, Sherlock did not fight.”

John started, “What?”

“Sherlock had become numb to all sorts of feelings, and he was scared of himself as well, he could have probably fought mommy about the curse, he **was** stronger than her… as you might have deduced by now, he didn’t.”

“Never thought he might have been hurt about his family turning on him?” John snapped, hands balling into fists.

Mycroft smiled in a way that made John want to punch him. “You seem to understand him better than we did.”

“It’s not hard if you take the time to,” he hissed, “But that’s the problem with your family, isn’t it? You all want everything right away, and cannot accept to wait. Like you couldn’t just ask me to come to you, no, you had to knock me out, you couldn’t support Sherlock to find some emotional balance, you had to force him into a horribly long curse. It is ridiculous, you know that, right?”

Mycroft’s hands clenched around his expensive umbrella’s neck. “Magic has made us quite spoiled, I imagine.”

“It is no excuse.”

He stood up, clearly uncomfortable. “This is not what I came here to talk about.”

“I have no desire to converse with you, Mycroft,” said John, standing up daringly. As if he could be any challenge to him.

“I think I gathered as much, thank you,” was the snapped reply. “You are an annoying human being, but you speak with passion, with no fear, it is admirable.”

John frowned, was that supposed to be a compliment? Why?

“I understand why Sherlock likes you, and I understand better now why he asked me to do him this particular favour,” he muttered cryptic.

“What do you mean?” he asked in fear, Sherlock would not take his memories, would he? He would not betray him like that! It was a silly fear probably, but John had the strange feeling that he had been too happy and he didn’t deserve to stay that way.

“I think he is being silly though, and I believe you will agree on that.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Of course, he hasn’t told you,” he whispered, and looked outside the window. “Sherlock seems to think that the only way he can keep you close is for him to have a normal life, to be a simple human.”

John frowned, quite lost, he was quite sure Sherlock would never be **normal** , no matter what. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“He asked me to take his magic away from him,” he explained impatient.

The doctor looked at him shocked, his mouth almost falling open. “What? No, why? Why would he do that?”

“Love?” provided Mycroft.

“But I didn’t ask him! He doesn’t have to do anything!” John protested, panic seeping in his features.

“Of course he doesn’t, he is being silly, he thinks you will not be able to relate, he thinks he needs to be different to be able to have you… I told him he was being dramatic…” he muttered, waving one hand dismissively.

“And you decided to go behind my back?” came Sherlock’s voice from the entrance, he was not happy. John had the feeling the room would have been quite cold if it had been a few months before.

“Oh, I knew you were due to come back any minute now,” said Mycroft with a fake smile.

“Sherlock, you didn’t, right?” asked John walking closer.

“I didn’t,” he said simply. “Apparently my brother wanted to check with you first.”

“He was right,” he muttered, and looked at Mycroft disapproving. “This once.”

“It is my decision,” protested Sherlock.

“Yes, but it affects the both of us… not to mention it is preposterous that you would do that for me, I do not need anything like that!” he took his wrist, squeezing it.

“Don’t you get it, John? We will always be in the middle of strange things if I keep my magic… and I… I might…” he looked to the side, overwhelmed by fear, John realized.

“You won’t. Sherlock… they made you think something was wrong with you, but it wasn’t. It never was!” he muttered, shaking him gently. “You have **us** now to remind you though, you are not crazy and you will never be.”

“I am a beast,” he insisted.

“No, you are not!” he snapped, his eyes pleading as he looked up to him. “You are wonderful, Sherlock, just because people can’t see that doesn’t mean you have to change. People are stupid, you know that!”

Sherlock laughed: “John…”

The doctor smiled. “I love you, you know… as you are now… whether you have magic or not, it doesn’t matter to me… but it is part of you, you like magic, you like your experiments, I want you to be free to do what you want…”

Sherlock didn’t know what to answer, he was shaking, overwhelmed by John’s words, the force of his feelings. Eventually, he hung his head in defeat.

“You should listen to him, Sherlock, he is smarter than he lets on…” said Mycroft, incredibly serious for once, none of that smug countenance he always had.

“Besides, we like adventures right? We like things to be a bit dangerous, it’s how **we** do it,” added John, reaching out his hand, squeezing Sherlock’s wrist.

“You see, Sherlock, he doesn’t need you to be different…” he tapped his umbrella. “Think about it.”

And then he was gone.

No sooner he was gone that Sherlock was pulling John closer, hugging him tight. “I am not sure what I did to deserve you,” he whispered in his hair.

“What’s the point of wondering about something like that? I do not feel I am anything special, but we are together, we have to trust that,” he replied, wishing Sherlock would understand. A few moments before he had been wondering the same, but although he could let himself be insecure, he would not accept it in Sherlock. He was never going to doubt their love, he was never going to let Sherlock doubt himself.

“Yes, I know… I know you are right,” he admitted. “I still need time to get used to this… I have never had anything that I could not afford to lose.”

He looked up, blue eyes were filled with affection.

“Me neither, Sherlock, me neither.”

And they joined in a kiss that lasted until Ms Hudson and Lestrade came in with bags of take away.

They ate all together that night, they talked, and it felt a lot like family.

 

 


	9. Fic Poster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A poster to represent the content of the fic created by the lovely Manon.

[ ](http://s16.photobucket.com/user/aiwaGURU/media/Untitled-1_zpsb2a330de.png.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Manon for your inspiring work!  
> If you want to see some more of her wonderful works, visit her tumblr anothermindpalace

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Hadrien for BETAing!


End file.
